


I Will Come to You in the Daytime (or, He Started It)

by fits_in_frames



Series: Throw Your Arms Around Me [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Dream Sex, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-04
Updated: 2007-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole thing was Sam's fault, Dean tells himself as he lies on his bed, seething.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Come to You in the Daytime (or, He Started It)

**Author's Note:**

> _i will come to you in the daytime_  
>  _i will raise you from your sleep_  
>  {hunters and collectors (via eddie vedder) // throw your arms around me}  
> 

The whole thing was Sam's fault, Dean tells himself as he lies on his bed, seething. Sam was being a snot-nosed little fucking brat, taunting him and snorting with laughter whenever he missed the target, saying he could do better blindfolded. Dean stares at the ceiling, blood pounding in his ears, and feels the imprint of resentment bubbling in his chest, feels the memory in his muscles of moving in one swift motion, easier than gunfire and quicker than lightning: toss, back, fist, forward. He feels the ghost of Sam's septum crunching against his knuckles, feels the warmth of Sam's blood spilling on to the back of his hand. And what bothers him more than the fact that Sam ran to Dad, blood pouring out of his face, to snitch on him (well, really, the blood pouring out of his face did the snitching, but that's beside the point) is the immediate loss of the violent urge, the immediate _I'm sorry Sammy_ that got stuck in his throat.

He thinks all this as he falls into sleep, in the middle of the afternoon (though it could be midnight, since the curtains are drawn and he could've been lying here for a few minutes or a few days). He finally closes his eyes and Sammy is there. Sammy is always there, in some incarnation or another--a flickering shadow on the wall, a still-warm imprint in the back seat of Dad's Impala, a faint cry from the next room--but this time he's actually _there_ in front of him, fully fleshed out. He is acutely aware of how old Sam looks--older than Dean, and taller too--and how tired his eyes seem. Dream-Sam cups Dean's dream-chin in his hand and says, _I know you didn't mean to_ without moving his lips. Dean touches the bridge of dream-Sam's nose; there is a sharp, crunchy break near where bone meets cartilage. He closes his eyes and tries to say, _I'm sorry_ , but it comes out as "I love you," and when he opens them again, Sam is gone. Before he has a moment to panic, older-Sam reappears ten feet away, naked. Dean wants to call out to him, but all that comes out of his mouth is blood: flecks of red fall on his still-outstretched arm and (he looks down and sees _he is naked too_ and that) he is soon standing in a puddle of thick, warm, syrupy blood. And then Sam is there, dream-Sam, his rough fingers in Dean's dream-mouth, sliding back and forth on his tongue. He tries to say, _Sam, what are you doing?_ , but he only coughs and splutters more blood out of his throat, on to Sam's hand, which then leaves Dean's mouth and travels, down, down, leaving a trail of smeared red on his chest and stomach and then-- _oh_. Sam presses himself against Dean's dream-body, smiling perversely, his hand slick with blood on Dean's dream-cock. He feels himself getting hard instantly, and along with the intense feeling of pleasure ( _oh god,_ he thinks, _is this what it's always like when someone else does it?_ ), there is a sudden impulse in his leg and he kicks Sam in the shin, but Sam keeps smiling that demonic smile, keeps sliding his hand up and down, so Dean closes his dream-eyes and when he finally comes, he arches his back and the insides of his eyelids go white and he hears a gunshot in his head.

He opens his eyes--his real eyes this time--he sees wisps of something above him and smells gunpowder and tastes salt on his lips. He half-lifts his head and sees Sam--real, eleven-year-old Sam--with a still-smoking shotgun on his shoulder, still cocked and ready to fire. His shirt is covered in blood and when he finally puts the gun down, Dean sees his nose is still red and crusty and quite clearly broken. Dad runs up behind him, shotgun in his hand, and stops, catching his breath, to say, "Sam, what did you do that for?"

Sam looks up at Dad and says, very matter-of-factly, "I heard him call out for me, and then I saw that thing over him, and he was asleep, so I--so I shot it."

Dean can't help but stare at his brother (even though he desperately wants to get up and change his clothes) as Dad says, "Sam, that was--Sam, where did you learn how to aim like that? You could have killed him."

Sam looks at Dean again, smiles as best he can with a broken nose, and says, "I only learn from the best."

*

Later, sitting in an emergency room cubicle, holding a tissue under Sam's nose ( _just in case_ , the doctor said after setting everything in place and then running off to get a nurse to assist him), Dean can't look at his little brother, who is watching cartoons on the small TV next to the bed. He watches passing doctors, checks the time once every thirty seconds, bites away at an uneven spot on one of his fingernails, until Sam says, "I'm sorry."

Dean snaps his head halfway around, eyes moving from the clock on the wall to Sam's bruised cheekbone. He just stares for a second, the image of demon-Sam reappearing in his head. Then he blinks and says, "For what?"

"For making fun of you. It was stupid."

Dean wipes his nose with his free hand, half-smiles. "Yeah," he whispers, looking down at his hand, clenching it into a fist. "Yeah, I'm sorry too."

And then Sam's hand is on his arm. "Don't be sorry, Dean. It's not your fault."

He cocks his head to the side, looks at Sam again. His eyes look older, suddenly, and Dean has to stop himself from shuddering.

Sam shrugs. "Dad said it was probably that thing I saw that made you do what you did."

Dean forces a smile, ruffles Sam's hair. "Yeah," he says, willing himself to believe it to be true, "that was probably it."


End file.
